


the northern lights

by sagexbrush



Series: how you get the girl [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Healing, Jackson is an asshole, Mentions of alcohol, Stiles has glasses, mentions of cheating, rated for language, slightly depressed lydia, stiles is an author, the Rocky Mountains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 18:45:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4716614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagexbrush/pseuds/sagexbrush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Definitely,” a bitter smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, “But now I’m thinking I should have made you into a Siren. You know, like in Greek Mythology? They sink ships with their beautiful singing voice.” </p><p>	“Are you saying I crash cars or something? Because I don’t really – “</p><p>	“No. I’m saying that you sunk me Lydia,” he says, in a voice that’s darker and more angry than she thought Stiles could be, “You sunk me in senior year, and now you’re sinking me again.” </p><p>(a story about two best friends and the gap between them)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the northern lights

**Author's Note:**

> HOLY SHIT THE AMOUNT OF COMMENTS I GOT WAS UNREAL  
> tbh i have no idea if this is going to live up to your standards...  
> but seriously.  
> i am so happy that you guys like 'oh take me back to the start' that i wrote 11,000 words in three days.  
> woo hoo, new record!  
> thank you so much!  
> (the lyrics in the headings are from the northern lights by jaymes young.)

****

**_i. she’s tired of thinking ‘til the sun comes up_ **

 

He looks back at her before he leaves.

            Of course, everyone is looking at her so it’s not _that_ much of a surprise, but it’s him that she’s watching walk away from everything.

            His eyes are so very brown, and she can now see the fractured remains of his heart inside of him, like everything inside him has been soaked with acid and is slowly corroding away.

            She wants to step forward, she wants to take his hand and pull him back, but her feet are glued to the floor and her fingers are quivering like she’s suddenly been injected with adrenaline.

            “Lydia?” it’s Jackson, and he’s using the kind of voice he only reserves for her, the voice that usually makes her shake with passion in her shoes. Right now she just feels empty.

            Empty as her best friend turns around and walks out the door, leaving the crumbled remains of a friendship behind him.

            “Lydia what did he do to you?” Jackson’s voice is angry now, violent, and it explodes in her head like a bomb. “If he did something to you – “

            “He didn’t do anything,” she says like she’s a robot, her voice empty and her body too. “I did something.”

            “What?”

            “I ruined everything,” she whispers, mostly to herself, and then turns away from Jackson.

            “Hey, babe, you didn’t ruin everything,” Jackson touches her arm and gently turns her towards him, his fingertips tracing over her jaw. She wants to shove him away, to curse at him and stomp on his toes because he’s the reason Stiles is leaving, but his touch is like volts of electricity shooting through her skin and tingling in her bones. “You didn’t ruin us.”

            He leans down and kisses her, and she lets him because he’s Jackson and she’s Lydia and this is what they do.

 

**_ii. her body aches when she’s awake_ **

****

She’s Lydia, and he’s Jackson, and this is what they do.

            She works all day, doing something stupid and meaningless for some boss who doesn’t even know her name. ( _Laura? Laurane? Laurie?_ )

            He plays Lacrosse professionally, and usually loses or has a bad practice day.

            She gets home exhausted.

            He gets home angry.

            They have sex.

            They make dinner.

            Sleep.

            Repeat.

            “Are you sure you’re okay?” Allison’s voice is concerned over the phone (as always), and Lydia merely leans her head back against the wall. She finally has a day off and is currently sitting in their living room, her knees curled to her chest and her hair undone.

            “I already told you Ally,” she says lightly, “I’m fine. Just a little tired that’s all.”

            “Okay.”

            “So, how is everyone?”

            “We haven’t heard from Stiles,” Allison replies automatically, “Scott thinks he’s somewhere in Alaska. Or Utah. Not entirely sure.”

            Lydia chuckles to herself, just like Stiles to be so carefree and _wild_ that no one can find him.

            “What project is he working on now?” she asks conversationally, her eyes flicking to the small row of books on her single shelf, all with the name S. STILINSKI stamped across the spine.

            “We have no idea. He’s currently in his ‘I won’t tell anyone’ phase,” Allison says, and she can practically feel her friend’s hesitation through the phone, “I’m sure he would love – “

            “I’m not sure if he would want me calling him,” Lydia says quickly, and she pretends like she doesn’t hesitate every night, her thumb hovering over his name in her contacts before switching it off and putting it away.

“Are you sure everything is okay with Jackson?”

            “It’s fine,” Lydia says shortly, “I’ve got to go.”

            She always hangs up before the questions can get to close to home. It’s easier to lie and pretend that everything’s fine with Jackson, it’s better than acknowledging the problem anyhow.

            She instead picks up her laptop and goes to Stiles’ blog. He usually has a new blog post everyday, and today it’s about some sort of food that he tried and absolutely _hated_. He’s taken a selfie with the offending dish, and she laughs at the disgust in his eyes and the way that his mouth is turned upwards.

            She comments (she always does) and says something witty about his choices in food, but it’s always under the username _soccergirl125._

The soccer is a small reference to their favorite past time as children, but she doesn’t think he’ll pick it up from the brief reference. Still, he always responds with equally quippy remarks, and it always brightens her day slightly.

            “I see you’re wasting time again,” Jackson greets, stepping into the living room and slamming the front door shut so loudly that Lydia jumps about a foot in the air.

            Frustration bubbles up in her chest like a sort of disease, and she snaps shut the computer.

            “You’re in a dashing mood,” she says sarcastically, and he grins at her.

            “You bet I am,” he replies back, and his smile nor his voice make her feel anything.

            (She’s empty.)

****

**_iii. changing_ **

****

            She texts Jackson that’s she’s going to be working late when it happens, and she was thinking that was the case until her boss firmly tells her to just _go the fuck home Laura_ , which she gladly does. (It wasn’t like she liked being a secretary anyways.)

            She was checking Stiles’ latest blog post on her phone (and he was in _Utah_ she noted, not Alaska) humming quietly to herself as she unlocked the door to their apartment and stepped inside.

            That’s when a woman (clad only in one of Jackson’s lacrosse uniforms she might add) stumbles into the living room, giggling.

            “That was as awesome as last time!” she shrieks in a high annoying voice, her hair obviously sex mussed and a hickey on her neck. Jackson comes out of the bedroom next, in boxers with a self-satisfied expression. An expression, Lydia adds, that disappears entirely when he sees her standing there.

            “What’s this?” she asks quickly, not daring to believe the worst, her stomach curling into knots. “Jackson?”

            He looks at her apologetically; like he actually feels sorry for the pain he’s causing her, like he actually _knows_ what she’s given up for him.

            “You weren’t supposed to find out like this,” he begins slowly, his facial expression pleading.

            “How else was I supposed to find out? Were you going to bake me a cake and say ‘hey Lydia, I’m actually cheating on you’?”

            “I was – “

            “Jackson what’s this?” the girl is staring between her and Lydia, “Are you – dating someone?” She sounds appalled.

            “Since high school!” Lydia snaps, “ _High school_ Jackson. And you just threw all of that away  - “

            “So what?” Jackson snaps, “We haven’t been working for ages. I was just trying to find the right way to break it to you.”

            She sucks in a deep breath, and then, calmly, yanks off one of her heels and chucks it at his head.

            “I HATE YOU!” she screams, so loudly that she’s pretty sure even Stiles in Utah, and Scott and Allison in California can hear you.

            The heel hits him in the forehead, and she’s pleasantly surprised when it makes a gash there.

           

 

**_iii. it kills her mother when she drinks too much, she can’t stay sober for a day_ **

 

            It kills her to go begging for help at her Mother’s door. It kills her so much that she rises a bottle to her lips, guzzling it down, leaning back against the pillows and wishing she could forget everything.

            She wishes she could forget Jackson.

            Forget their apartment, the sex, the special way he only spoke to her, everything about him that made her feel _special_. That made her feel _wanted_.

            She wanted to forget Stiles.

            Wanted to forget the way he had always looked at her, like she was the only thing in the universe. Wanted to forget the way he kicked the soccer ball at her when she got frustrated, how he pretended to be her prince, the way he sat with her when her parents got divorced and his Mother died, remembered the way he had looked under the shiny lights from Prom.

            She wanted to forget _everything_.

            So, locked back in the pink cave of her room, she drinks. She drinks until she can no longer bring the bottle back to her lips and sinks back against the pillows, giggling, and she forgets Jackson. She almost forgets Stiles. (He’s the harder one to forget anyhow.)

 

**_iv. she’s giving everything to numb the burn_ **

****

When she wakes up, her head is pounding, and the pink coverlet is stained with the liquor bottle she’d dropped when she finally fell asleep.

            “Lydia?” her Mother’s uncertain voice seeps through the cracks of the door, and she groans, rolling over to bury her face in her pillows. “Are you okay?”

            “I’m fine,” she lies, and of course her Mother enters anyways. (It’s like the rule of all parents. They can’t ever leave you alone when you need to be).

            “Lydia!” she hears in a panicked gasp, but she can’t find the strength to really look up. It isn’t until she feels the gentle motherly touch on her shoulder that she glances upward.

            “Mom…?” she whispers in a small broken voice, and her Mother pulls her in close, like she’s never going to let go.

            “Lydia what happened?” she hears, and Lydia begins to sob, burying her face in her Mother’s shirt.

            “I don’t know,” she cries, “I don’t _know_.” (and it’s the truth.)

           

 

**_v. addicted to the losing fight_ **

****

Lydia likes Netflix.

            She likes the shows that always have clear endings, when the guy ends up with the girl and the main character always figures out the solution in time. Nobody stays broken forever because it’s fictional.

            She spam watches show after show, barely pausing to sleep or eat, just sitting in a dark room, relishing in being empty.

            (She knows her Mother’s worried.)

            (She doesn’t really care.)

            One day, while she’s in the middle of the finale of _Chuck_ (and she may or may not be crying okay) someone darts in the dark sanctuary of her bedroom and rips back the curtains.

            Lydia cries out in pain as bars of sunlight filter in, it might be winter but the light still _hurts_.

            “Who’s there?” she murmurs pathetically, and someone throws a pillow at her.

            “Get dressed,” Allison’s voice snaps, and then Scott’s gentler voice fills the room.

            “Please.”

            “Why should I?” Lydia crosses her arms over her chest childishly. Allison rolls her eyes.

            “Because you’re not acting like Lydia Martin,” she points out, “And Scott, your Mother and I are sending you to someone who can make you yourself again.”

            Lydia flops back against her pillows. She doesn’t want to be herself. That girl screwed up too many times, that girl lost everything. She wants to continue to be this empty shell of a girl, it’s simpler.

            “And who’s that?”

            “Stiles,” Allison says shortly, rifling through Lydia’s wardrobe and throwing things into a pile. “Scott, can you find a suitcase?”

            “ _Stiles_?” Lydia is appalled, why would Stiles care if she wasn’t acting herself? He had made it clear that their friendship was over a long time ago thank you very much.

            “Yes _Stiles_ ,” Allison switches off the TV next and Scott lifts down a suitcase from her closet. “We called him.”

            “You told him about me and Jackson?”

            “As much as we know,” Allison glares, “It’s not like you told us anything. All we know is you two broke up, and then you start acting like a freaking hermit. So yes. We called Stiles. And he invited you to stay in his cabin, so if you’re going to act like a hermit, you can do it properly.”

            “Don’t I get a say in this?” Lydia asks grumpily.

            “Nope,” this time it’s her Mother from the doorway, looking genuinely concerned and sad at the same time. “I think Stiles is the best for you right now.”

            “Oh, so you’ve decided to start acting like a Mother now,” Lydia snaps, “And I’m over eighteen. You can’t force me to go anywhere.” She says it confidently, but at one look from Allison she falters.

            “Just for a couple months Lydia,” Scott pleads, “You need it.”

            (She’s already agreed, but she gives them hell anyways.)

 

**_vi. she looks vacant but the wheels still turn_ **

****

The plane ride is fairly short, and she spends the whole ride looking out the window.         

            The Earth spreads before her in miraculous patches of gray, brown, the occasional green splotch (it is winter), and the ridges of mountains get more and more prominent as they get closer to their destination.

            While she’s read all of Stiles’ books about his various adventures into the unknown, she’s never had a craving to go on one of them herself. There seems to be a sort of line that’s she’s never been wiling to cross, she’d rather stick to the facts.

            The Rocky Mountains are beautiful shades of blue and white, their spines jutting up to meet the plane and to tempt her with their infinite possibilities.

            The landing is fairly smooth, and she follows the signs in the airport to the baggage claim.

            She’s surprised to find Stiles already standing there waiting for her, with a big sign held in his hands with the words: _LYDIA MARTIN_ written on it in blue ink.

He looks _good_ , muscles, hair longer and tucked into a beanie, black glasses perched on the end of his nose, and that same quirking mouth.

            He certainly looks a damn sight better than she does, with her messy hair, the shadows under her eyes and the pale look of someone who hasn’t gotten a lot of sunlight in the last few months.

            He smiles uncertainly upon seeing her, and she fiddles with the strap of her purse.

            “Stiles,” she finally says once she’s only a few steps away from him, and then he’s stepping forward and wrapping his arms around her tightly.

            She knows it’s just a formality, because it’s what people do when they haven’t seen each other for years, but she can’t help but feel slightly warmer as she buries her face in his shoulder.

            “Shall we get your bags?” he asks gently, and he’s treating her like she’s glass. (She assumes her Mother has filled him in on everything she knows.)

            (Somehow the thought is discomforting.)

 

**_vii. she could be singing this tonight_ **

****

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she says in disbelief when he leads them to her car. He looks back at her, slight alarm etching into his face before he’s laughing.

            “Like I would get rid of the Jeep!”

            “You live in the mountains. In the dead of winter. In Utah. How the hell does it run?” she asks in disbelief.

            “That’s for me to know and you to ponder on,” he says cheerily, and he opens the passenger door for her like she’s a queen.

            “You didn’t have to do this,” she says, because she’s Lydia and he’s Stiles and this is what they do.

            “Of course I did,” he responds, “You’re still my best friend Lyds.”

            (She would never admit it to Allison, but Salt Lake City is rather beautiful.)

            Stiles doesn’t try to ask her what happened, he doesn’t even try to talk, and she’s grateful for that.

            “I’m sorry,” she finally says, as he turns into a canyon (the canyon she’s assuming that he lives up).

            He looks over at her, and his brown eyes are unreadable.

            “Why are you sorry?”

            “You shouldn’t have to do this,” she rolls her eyes, “I’m an adult – I can take care  - “

            “No offense,” he says quickly, “But you haven’t been doing a really good job at taking care of yourself lately if Allison’s telling the truth.”

            “Allison’s always stretched the truth.”

            “Not as much as you.”

            (She hates him.)

            “I hate you.”  

            “I’ve missed you too.”

            (She really did miss him.)

            (She won’t admit it though.)

            The canyon is spectacular, the mountains rising up on either side of them like gigantic walls, and she’s momentarily distracted from their argument as she just gapes at the vast beauty.

            “I never thought they’d be this big,” she whispers, her breath fogging up the glass. Stiles laughs, and it sounds like coming home.

            “It’s going to be an adventure,” he says, and for once, she agrees with him.

 

**_viii. i wanna touch the northern lights_ **

****

Stiles has a two bedroom cabin in the farthest reaches of the canyon, but she’s surprised to find that he actually has neighbors.

            He waves cheerily to one of them as he pulls into his driveway.

            “I’m surprised people other than you are crazy enough to live up here,” she comments, trying to pretend like she wasn’t absolutely _stunned_ by the cold distant beauty of everything.

            “You’re never alone,” he mumbles, lifting her trunk out of the back and carting it towards his house. “Welcome to your new home!”

            “Temporary,” she reminds him, “Temporary home.”

            “Who knows? Maybe you’ll want to stay here forever.” He winks at her.

            She sticks out her tongue, “It’s not like _you_ stay in one place for very long anyways.”

            He looks at her in surprise. “Have you – have you been following me?”

            She flips her hair and pretends like it’s nothing.

            “I read one or two of your books,” she lies, “Or maybe only half of one. So what will it be Stilinski – are you going to show me your humble abode?”

“Follow me, your majesty, your palace awaits.”

            She does indeed follow him, clutching her arms tightly to her chest because it’s cold as hell.

            His house is warm-ish though. His living room literally consists of a couch, a coffee table, and a small desk with a laptop on it. There are several photographs hung on the wall, Scott and Allison, his parents, one of him and a pretty blonde girl (an ex?) and finally there’s one of the two of them.

            She steps forward, tracing her thumb over the encased picture, thinking it must have been taken when they were both around six years old. She had her hair tied in a ponytail and he still had his buzz cut, and they had their arms thrown around each other like everything was _perfect_. Like nothing would ever change.

            “I set up the second bedroom for you,” Stiles says, “And put some extra blankets in the wardrobe if you need them, it gets cold at night.”

            “Aren’t you going to ask me?” she asks softly, sliding her thumb over their happy faces.

            “Ask you what?”

            “Why I suddenly showed up at my Mother’s door and was a total wreck?”    

            Stiles shrugs. “Not unless you want me to.”

            She shakes her head. “Please don’t.”

            “I’m not Allison Lyds,” he shakes his head, “I won’t pry into your business. It’s _your_ business.”

            “Thank you,” she says lightly, and then, “Where’s my room?”

            He points to the left side of the wall, and she sees that the room stretches out onto a hallway. “Second door on the right,” he tells her.

            “I’m going to get some sleep,” she lies, slipping into the room.

            It’s decorated sparsely, one bed and one wardrobe. She curls up in the middle of the bed, dropping her bag at her feet and covering her face with one of the pillows.

            It’s harder than she thought it would be, seeing him again. Of course, everything in her life has been harder than she originally thought it was going to be. It wasn’t like anything could go easy (or right) for her.

            She feels almost guilty for saddling Stiles again with her presence, despite the fact that he seemed perfectly fine with it. She wondered why, if she had really broken his heart like he had said she had.

            She peers out of the window and sees the canyon sprawling before her in glorious shades of blue, white, and dark green, and rests her head against the glass for a moment, her breathing slow.

            She was sure that if Jackson could see her now he would probably laugh. He would probably feel happy because of the power he had over her, some sort of vindictive pleasure neither she nor Stiles had ever felt capable of.

            She feels a steely disappointment rising in her now; she was _Lydia Martin_ for god’s sake. She had survived so much more than this, and losing Jackson had broken her? Losing Jackson had made most of the people she loved ship her out of state? Her presence had probably made them uncomfortable she reasons, with her desperate need to keep being empty.

            Stiles had always been able to deal with the brokenness in people though, she realizes, it was skill obtained in the wake of his Mother’s death and they’ve just shoved her to him in the hopes that he’ll miraculously fix her.

            A bitter anger rises in her, and she decides that she won’t be their little ‘patient’ and will simply go on living her life (even if Stiles was there) and wouldn’t contact them. She would ask Stiles not to as well. She wanted to solve this on her own if she really needed to fix this about herself.

 

**_ix. we could leave the world behind_ **

****

“I have a favor to ask you,” she asks the next morning, dressed in her pajamas with her hair tied back into a sloppy bun and her face makeup free. She’s decided that if he’s stuck with her for the next few months, she might as well get ready on her own time. (Besides, it’s Stiles.)

            “And that is?” his lip is caught in-between his teeth, and he’s focusing on his laptop with such a determination she can only assume that he’s writing his blog.

            “Can you not talk about me to Scott and Allison? And probably my Mother?”

            He looks up at her in confusion. “Why not?”

            “Because they think that this place can just magically fix me,” she says impatiently, wishing that she could have telepathy so she didn’t have to explain everything _all the time_ , “But I don’t want to be their little science experiment.”

            “I’m sure that’s not – “

            “Well it feels like it! If you must, tell them that I’m doing fine.”

            “I’m not going to lie,” Stiles says firmly, “But if you really want, I won’t tell them anything. As long as you’ll do one thing for me.”

            “And that is?”

            He grins, setting down his laptop. “Go on a hike with me.”

            She frowns slightly. “Uh – well I don’t know if you noticed, but it’s _winter_ Stiles. The last time I checked, hiking was more of a _summer_ thing.”

            He infuriatingly gives her a cocky smile and a wink.

            “Dress warm, and breakfast is on the stove.”

            She sticks her tongue out at him, but goes to the stove to find a warm stack of chocolate chip pancakes and a hot coffee waiting for her. It warms her heart in the way Netflix and alcohol never could, but because she is Lydia Martin, she merely stacks the pancakes on her plate and accepts the mug.

            Stiles watches her with amusement in her eyes.

            “Thank you,” she murmurs, and he nods.

            “No problem.”

            They eat breakfast in a comfortable silence, the only sounds his fingers tapping on the keys and her lips smacking together.

            She does as she’s told (and it kills her but he is giving her a place to stay) and dresses in her warmest coat and tucking a beanie around her ears, lacing up her boots as tightly as they would go.

            If she was being honest with herself, she had expected that Stiles _wouldn’t_ just leave her alone. She had known that he would try and help her, if only in his Stiles way.

            “You’re not going to be warm enough,” Stiles says automatically at the sight of her, and she frowns.

            “This is the warmest thing I own.”

            He rolls his eyes, and crosses over to a row of hooks on the wall, slipping off one of the heavier jackets and tossing it to her.

            It’s heavy, made of a thick material she quite honestly hasn’t seen before and while it’s a hideous shade of brown she still slips it onto her shoulders.

            Stiles looks at her a little sadly as she does so, like she’s somehow done something _wrong_ by accepting the jacket without fuss.

            “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks suspiciously, and he shakes his head back and forth like trying to clear his head over water.

            “Like what?” he asks, like he has no idea what she’s talking about but she knows he does.

            She flips her hair over her shoulder, wishing she had put on make up after all. It makes her feel naked without it on, and she fidgets slightly under his gaze.

            “Aren’t we going to go?” she asks, stuffing her fingers into the pockets.

            “Yes,” Stiles rolls his eyes, and then strides to the door of his hut (at least that’s what she’s decided to call it) and throws it open, letting the weak wintery sunlight and the smell of fresh air spill in through the doorway.

            She doesn’t say anything to him as she walks through the door, but instead hunches down in his jacket.

            It smells like _Stiles_ , like nature and lemon shampoo and something else that’s slightly masculine but at the same time endearing. It’s one of the most frequent smells from her childhood, and for whatever reason it soothes the worried tangles in her chest. (She wonders if she can smuggle it into her room later.)

            The bright wintery morning is slightly refreshing, but the cold bites at her cheeks and she can already feel the numbness growing in her fingertips.

            She starts automatically towards the Jeep, and only stops when Stiles lightly steers her towards the road and away from the driveway.

            “Aren’t we taking the Jeep?”

            “Nope,” he says, “You’re right, not many hikes are actually accessible at this time of year. So we’re going to walk up the road.”

            She simply looks at him.

            “What?”

            She shakes her head slowly, and then gestures for him to take the lead.

            “You know,” he says, “When Allison called me, I didn’t expect this.”

            “She over exaggerates all the time,” Lydia rolls her eyes. Stiles shakes his head.

            “No, it’s worse than what I thought,” he says, and she looks affronted. She thought she had been doing a great job at the illusion of being okay, and the fact that it’s failed annoys her more than anything else.

            (So she decides not to talk to him. It’s a childish move, but effective none the less.)

 

  1. **_I wanna know what it’s like, to walk away from this life_**



****

After his comment, Stiles doesn’t seem inclined to try and push her into talking. He only makes quiet remarks, and those are only to tell her to just keep following the road.

            It’s quite odd, hiking up on asphalt like it’s a trail, and there are barely any cars in sight, or the sounds of any humans, just the soft sounds of their feet and her own heavy breathing (Stiles is actually more athletically fit than her damn it.)

            She can definitely notice the differences in him though, differences that she (and perhaps others) probably created. He doesn’t talk aimlessly as much anymore, doesn’t always flick his hands around like he can’t sit still, and most importantly, doesn’t automatically do everything to make her forgive him.

            In fact, his calm nature is starting to grate on her nerves, mostly because this isn’t like Stiles, but now she’s realizing that it probably is exactly like the Stiles now, and the fact that he’s changed without her makes her feel sick.

            She isn’t sure what’s the purpose of this little jaunt, isn’t quite sure why he was _so_ adamant that she come along with him on this seemingly pointless endeavor. Was the beautiful air of nature supposed to make her wake up and tell him everything or something?

            “So,” he says finally, breaking the silence, “How did you sleep?”

            It’s such a casual question, so polite, with no strings connected to Jackson or her own personal emotions that it almost overwhelms her.

            She wants to lie, say that she slept beautifully and that there was no reason for him to worry about her, but it’s just that, a lie. She hadn’t fallen asleep until at least one in the morning, mostly because her thoughts had been plagued with seeing him again and the residual feelings from Jackson.

            “Not very well,” she whispers, her breath a puff in the cold air.

            Stiles doesn’t pry, but instead acknowledges her with a brief nod of his head.

            (Somehow it’s the only thing she needs.)

            “So do you mind telling me the point of this?” she asks, probably sounding ruder than she meant to, but she didn’t really care.

            “The point of the hike?”

            She nods.

            “I figured it could help,” he says.

            “Why, because I seem like such a nature girl?”

            “Because it helps me,” he says calmly.

            “Because we’re peas in a pod!” she says sarcastically, rolling her eyes, “Seriously. We’re like negative and positive here.”

            “Who’s the negative one?” Stiles jokes, “Because just saying, I am probably the most positive person you will ever meet.”

            “Oh shut up.”

            “Only if you make me.”

            She sticks her tongue out at him. “And what do you mean – ‘helps me’?”

            “Tell you what,” Stiles says, “Let’s play a game.”

            It shouldn’t send anticipation and excitement sparking through her stomach, she _isn’t_ that person anymore. She doesn’t get easily persuaded into feeling things.

            “What kind of game?”

            “You tell me something true about you, and I’ll return the favor.”

            “So what, we’re trading secrets like teenagers?”

            “If I remember correctly, there was no secret sharing as teenagers,” Stiles says idly, “In fact, we weren’t friends for most of our teendom years.”

            “Whatever,” she rolls her eyes. “Fine. You want to know something about me? I quit my job.”

            He smirks. “I quit my job too.”

            “But you’re self employed basically – “ she says without thinking, and his smirk widens.

            “How do you know that wasn’t my original job? And I thought you didn’t follow me.”

            “I don’t,” she snaps, “I just assumed. I did read one of your books. Okay, how about – I worked as a secretory for a stubborn ass CEO for like three years.”

            “I was a detective for the Beacon Hills police force for two,” Stiles concedes. This peaks her interest.

            “Really? Then why’d you quit?”  
            He gives her a look.

            “Um – I had six pregnancy scares?”

            “ _Wow_ I don’t really – I dated one person on and off.”

            “Who?”

            “I’m going to need some information for that one Martin.”

            “Fine. I like seafood now.”

            “Her name was Erica.”

            “Uh – “ she’s starting to realize how dull her life with Jackson really was, as she doesn’t have any good stories to tell. “Oh _fine_ , I followed you over the years.”

            “ _Victory_!” he pumps his fist in the air, “Uh  - I used to ask Allison how you were every time she called me.”

            “Me too.”

            He looks at her in surprise, something changing in his brown eyes. “I think that’s enough for today,” he finally says.

            “What, scared we’re getting too personal?” she stopped their upward trek and looked at him closely.

            “Something like that.”

            “What made you quit your job Stiles?” she asks, stepping forward, “What made you break up with Erica?”

            “Tell you what,” he says, slowly and determined, in that way only Stiles possesses. “You tell me what happened with Jackson, and I’ll tell you the answer to both those questions.”

            “That’s not – “

            “It’s perfectly fair,” he says quickly, “In fact, it would be unfair if Erica and me leaving my job weren’t so closely related. I’m answering two of your questions, and that’s only one of mine.”

            “Fine.”

            (She’s not curious.)

            (She isn’t, she swears.)

****

**_xi. i have to cross entire oceans_ **

****

She waits a week before she asks him for the Wi-Fi password. She doesn’t want to seem desperate, but she never got to finish Chuck and quite frankly, she’s already gotten bored with what little entertainment Stiles has to offer.

            (As in, cooking, hiking, and reading the small selection of books he has on his bedside table.)

            “No.”

            “What do you mean no?” she asks, affronted as she pushes her laptop in front of him.

            He looks up at her sheepishly. “Allison would have my head on a stick.”

            “I thought you weren’t – “

            “I’m _not_ , but Allison knows everything okay.”

“What the fuck does she have against the internet?”

            “Maybe the fact that you spent three weeks of your life on it.”

            She gives up the point (the hold Allison has on Scott and Stiles amazes her) and instead plops down on the couch next to him, crossing her arms tightly.

            “What am I supposed to do then?”

            “Read?”

            “I’ve already read every single book on your table. Twice.”

            He laughs. “There’s something called a book store Lydia.”

            “Then can we go to one? Or is that another thing in Allison’s book of rules?”

            He calmly flips her off.  “Of course we can go to the book store.”

            “Like right now?”

            “Let me just finish this blog post,” he says, frowning down at the screen.

            “What? Writer’s block?”

            “No, one of my usual commentators has been unusually absent lately,” he says, “I’m kind of worried.”

            “What’s her username?”

            “Soccergirl125.”

            “I thought you were smart.”

            He looks at her in surprise, a mixture of hurt and confusion contorting his features.

            “What?!”

            “C’mon. I come into town, the comments stop, the soccer reference, the fact that I follow your blog?”

            He looks at her, mouth agape. “You’re Soccer Girl?”        

            She nods proudly. “According to your post two weeks ago, I’m your biggest fan. Now are we going to go to the bookstore or what?”

 

**_xii. when I want a moment of her time_ **

****

The ride down the canyon is just as beautiful as the way up. Even more so, now that she’s gotten a better hold on her surroundings and what everything means. (Well somewhat. She’s still confused as hell about everything.)

            They pass one or two ski resorts she hadn’t noticed on the way up, and she gawks at the little people that look like mere ants on the surface.

            “Have you ever done that?” she asks eagerly, twisting back to look at Stiles. He chuckles.

            “Yes,” he laughs, “Let’s just say, it wasn’t pretty.”

            She finds herself laughing at the mental image of Stiles trying to navigate his feet while on two long sticks, and it’s such a good feeling that sends rays of warmth down to the tips of her toes. 

            “I want to try,” she decides, and the words startle herself. She hasn’t been exactly – well – _involved_ in the last few years.

            Stiles doesn’t seem surprised, but then again, he hasn’t seen her in the last few years. “Well you’ll need to find a better teacher.”

            “I could have known that without you telling me.”

            “What are you insinuating about my athletic skills?”

            “That they’re terrible.”

            “I strongly object to that statement!”

            “Stiles,” she giggles, “I’ve watched you grow up. I think I know about your skills more than anyone else.”

            He grins at her, “That’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh since you got here.”

            That comment from Allison, Scott, or her Mother would have probably made her shrink, her smile disappearing, her mind filled with intrusive thoughts. But since it’s Stiles, and she really has missed him, she just casually flips him off.

            They have to descend into the city bordering the mountains, and she watches in an interest she hasn’t possessed before at the passing cars, at the signs and the view of the mountains from down in the valley.

            “You’re looking at everything like you’ve never been out of California before.”

            She turns around at the comment, “Well maybe I’m just curious as to why you chose here to live.”

            “It’s for my new book.”

            Out of all the career positions she expected Stiles Stilinski to hold, she never imagined him going into something like _writing_. He’d always been too easily distractible, too wild to really be tamed to really focus on one thing.

            “So what’s it about?” she asks softly. His other books had focused on his own endeavors, his own trips around the world, what he experience, what he _saw_. On his blog he had kept hinting that he was actually doing something else, a different sort of genre.

            He raises a finger to his lips and mimes a _be quiet_ sign. “There are ears everywhere.”

            She rolls her eyes. “Will you tell me back at the cabin?”

            “Nope.”

            “You suck.”

            “I do not.”

            “In fact, I’m pretty sure you suck at everything _but_ writing.”

            “Ah, my saving grace.”

            “You know it.”

            He looks over at her, and grins again, like the mere sight of her could make a smile stretch across his face. (It’s something she loves and hates at the same time.)

            “I’ll tell you if you go on a _real_ hike with me tomorrow.”

            “I thought you said all the real hikes were closed.”

            “Not if you snowshoe.”

            She considers. “Fine,” she decides, “But I swear to god Stiles, if it’s not a good story idea – “

            “It’s a fantastic story idea,” he mutters absently, “It’s going to be a hit.”

            She leans back against the car seat, letting her eyelids flutter shut for a moment. It’s the most she’s talked to someone in so _long_ , and while it exhausts her in a way she didn’t think was possible, it also feels right. She may still be mostly screwed up from Jackson, but Stiles makes her feel slightly better. (And she’s only been in close proximity with him for a week.)

            “So is that why you chose Utah?” she asks, “Because it relates to your book?”

            He gives her an odd look, like he’s bordering on telling her something but evidentially decides not to.

            “Why I moved out here has something to do with Erica,” he replies shortly and she sighs.

            She knows that she could easily tell him what happened with Jackson, how he cheated on her and how she just sort of broke inside, but for whatever reason she doesn’t want to tell him, because it sounds pathetic.

            She shouldn’t have let Jackson break her in that way.

            She was Lydia Martin for god’s sake, she was stronger than that and by it not being some incredibly horrible thing that had broken her – she feels weak. She feels like if she tells him he’ll just be disappointed in her for getting so easily usurped by that. To be frank, she’s disappointed in herself, so she wouldn’t be very surprised if he felt the same way.

            “So where’s the book store?” she abruptly changes the topic, leaning forward slightly to peer out the window.

            “It’s,” he says, veering off the highway and onto a rather small dingy street, “Just up ahead.”

            She’s expecting him to take her to one of those chain bookstores that are literally _everywhere_ , but instead he pulls to a stop in front of a small brick building with a cute little blue sign.

            “This is literally my second home,” he tells her seriously, “So treat it with respect.”

            She flounces out of the car, not really talking to him, letting him decide if she was actually going to pay attention or not.

            “Any good book recommendations?”

            “Uh – have you read…” and he trails off into a long ass book recommendations list. She only really hears a few titles, and decides that based off the descriptions he’s given her, it sounds like she’ll most likely want to read _The Maze Runner._

            The bookstore has an atmosphere that reminds her of her house in the good old days, when her parents weren’t fighting and Stiles was over to play soccer. It just has that warm homey vibe, and even though she probably won’t admit it to Stiles, she loves it immediately.

            It has red painted walls, big tall brown shelves packed full with novels, and a small coffee stand in the back that probably only sells black coffee (and she’s so totally going to make Stiles buy her some when they’re done here.).

            She wanders off, looking at the different books, and Stiles meanwhile moves to chat up the lady behind the register. She’s an older woman in probably her sixties, and Stiles looks at her like she’s a reading goddess (she has to make sure to ask him there’s not something going on there.).

            “Hey Lyds!” Stiles calls, and the use of her old nickname jolts her out of her haze. “Come and meet Martha.”

            She moves shyly towards the counter.

            “So you’re staying with Stiles?” the other woman asks her kindly, and Lydia nods.

            “Just until I can get back on my feet.”

            “Shoo Stiles,” the older woman says, making a flicking motion at him. He pretends to be offended but moves away, muttering to himself as he pursues the fantasy section. “So,” Martha says, “Tell me about you and Stiles.”

            Lydia’s rather taken aback. “Excuse me?”

            “Oh he’s been my friend these past few months,” she says, “And he never stops going on about a girl named _Lydia_. You do realize he reveries you like a sort of strawberry blonde goddess?”

            She’s rather startled by the woman’s abruptness, but tries for a smile.

            “I’m sure that’s not – “        

            “Can you do me a favor?” Martha asks intently, “Stiles is probably one of the brightest souls to wander in here, in fact I’ve never seen someone shine so bright after what he went through, and I need to know that you’re not going to break his heart.”

            Lydia looks at Martha in amazement; she certainty wasn’t expecting Stiles to have someone like a Mother in his life. Although, she supposes, you always need a mother at some point, and it seems like he just find someone he could talk to. (She has to admit it makes her rather happy.)

            “I won’t,” she promises, even if it’s a promise she doesn’t know if it’s in her power to keep. She’s already broken his heart once after all.

            “He loves you more than anything,” Martha says wisely, “And I can see that you love him in the same way.”

            Lydia splutters.

            “So you were looking for the Maze Runner,” Martha says, as if what she had just said wasn’t completely life changing, “I have one right behind the desk.”

            She hands the book over, with a pleasant ‘come again’, and Lydia is still trying to find a suitable excuse for why she _doesn’t_ love Stiles.

            (She can’t think of one.)

 

**_xiv. she never wants to fall in love again_ **

****

Martha’s words continue to ring in her head for the rest of the day (and night) so she almost completely forgets her snowshoeing deal with Stiles.

            He doesn’t even need to tell her that breakfast is on the stove, she automatically goes and picks it up (today it’s oatmeal) shoveling it into her mouth while he plays with something in his lap that looks like an absolute mess of straps and various other things.

            “What are you doing?”

            He looks up. “Getting ready for today. Looks like the weathers going to be nice.”

            She’s not in love with him. She’s not in love with the way he beams at her when he says that, not in love with the way he plays with the straps like they’re delicate, she’s not in love.

            She’s never been in love with Stiles; it just wasn’t something that happened. He was her best friend, yeah, he was really the only person she still trusted, but she was _not_ in love with him.

            Not.

            As in no.

            As in never.

            She hasn’t even considered the possibility, in fact she’s 100% sure that Jackson has ruined her in the romance department forever. She was going to live a long, lonely life alone with twenty cats in Beacon Hills. Or maybe Utah. She liked Utah.

            “Good!” she says, maybe a little _too_ cheerily, and she gulps down the oatmeal with the speed of a ninja, before darting back into her bedroom to put on her pajamas.

            When she comes out, wearing Stiles’ coat and his gloves and a pair of jeans, he looks up at her and her heart stops in her chest.

            He’s crouching on the floor, and his shirt has ridden up just slightly to expose a little bit of his stomach, his dark hair is affectionately rumpled and those damn fucking _glasses_. While not everyone was suited for glasses, Stiles most certainly _was_.

            It wasn’t like she had to see him in glasses often, in fact he had only worn them the first day and at night when she was too tired to care. Now, with them highlighting his amber eyes just so, with his tongue sticking slightly out of his mouth while he concentrated, they made him into a freaking sex god.

            (She blames Martha for making her see him like this.)

            “Ready?” he asks her, the snowshoes strapped across his back and a quirky smile on his mouth.

            She suddenly realized how quickly he had gotten to her, how quickly he had crept into her heart again, how quickly he had become her best friend again.

            “Let’s go!” she says with a bit too much passion, and he laughs at the sudden bubbliness spilling forth from her like a fountain.

            (She’ll just pretend that it’s just a momentary desire to hear about his new story.)

            (Because she’s not in love with him.)

 

**_xv. and every kiss would be a crime_ **

****

Once they get to the hiking trail, he has to strap her feet into the shoes, so she gets a rather magnificent view of his ass as he bends over her feet. (Which is really not helping matters okay.)

            “I think that should be good,” he says as he pulls tight the straps. “Now it’s just like regular walking – “

            “But you have paddles instead of feet.”

            “Exactly.”

            He straightens up. While she’s offered to carry a backpack on her shoulders as well, he’s insisted that he carry both of them himself.

            “Lead the way!” she gestures impatiently, “The sooner we start, the sooner I get to hear this fantastic idea.”

            Stiles laughs. “Now I’m scared it’s not going to be good enough.”

            “If it comes from your mind, I’m sure it’s fabulous,” she says confidentially, and then curses herself. No matter what her inner monologue is, she’s not in love with him and she _doesn’t_ get to say things like that.

            He starts forward, and Lydia takes a few experimental steps. True to his word, the snowshoes aren’t that much different from normal walking, even if it’s a bit of trial and error at first.

            “So Stilinski,” she barks, “Get talking.”

            “Aye sir!” she can practically _feel_ him blushing. “Well – well it’s kind of about _us_.”

            “Us?” she says in alarm.

            “Maybe…?” he trails off uncertainly, “At least, all of the characters are based off of people we know. There’s a me, and there’s a Lydia, and an Allison and Scott, but with a twist.”

            “So it’s not just our boring lives?”  

            “Who wants to read about my escapades in high school?” he wonders, “No. It’s different. It has werewolves and other, _creatures_ , involved.”

            “Who’s a werewolf?” she inquires curiously.

            “Scott is,” Stiles says, “Because he’s well, _Scott_. He and Allison have this weird relationship thing going on so far but _you know_.”

            “What am I?” she’s almost afraid of the answer.

            “You’re a banshee.”

            “WHAT?!” when she hears the word banshee, she thinks of a hideous old woman with a shriveled face and gray hair.

            “But you still look beautiful I swear!” Stiles says quickly, “It just seemed like the most – oh I don’t know – _appropriate_ thing?”

            She wants to herald him about it more, but the words _you still look beautiful_ ring in her head like wind chimes, and she decides to move on.

            “What are you?”

            “I’m just human,” he says, “Because well, that also seemed appropriate.”

            “Why?”

            “Reasons.”     

            “What kind of reasons?”     

            “If you’re ‘only human’ you make the most mistakes, and that seemed to fit for me,” he bites out.

            “Why would that fit you?” she demands, “Because the last time I checked, you make the least mistakes out of _all of us_.”

            “That’s not true.”

            She’s stopped, and the silence of nature presses down on her like someone has suddenly flipped a switch. Stiles turns around to look at her, something like confusion in his eyes.

            “I’m the one who screwed – “

            “Don’t even say that,” it’s the first time that they’ve spoken about Prom, and it’s the first time she sees a spark of anger flit across his features. “I’m the one who left.”

            “And I’m the one who _let you walk away_ ,” she whispers, but it’s so quiet that she’s sure he can hear every syllable. “I’m the one who chose Jackson like a fucking idiot.”

            “Lydia – “

            “No, don’t you get it Stiles? Being human, making mistakes, that’s not something to be ashamed of! You made the rest of us inhuman because we’re just _that_. You’ve always been able to see through us like we’re glass, and you can see that I’m so fucked up that I’m not even human. And I fucked you over and you’re still human and that’s what’s so damn important, _why_ can’t you see that?”

            He looks at her for a moment, like somehow he’s processing something, something changing in his brown eyes. She’s not looking at him like she’s a person, he’s looking at her like she’s a problem to solve. Like he’s deciding the best way to evade this before she presses too deep.

            (Maybe she’s not the only one who’s lost her way.)

            “You don’t get it,” he finally says, “You _can’t_ get it.”

            “Get what?”

            He smiles a bitter smile. “You tell me your story and I’ll tell you mine.”

            “Fuck you.”

            “Love you too,” he responds automatically, every word laced with sarcasm. Maybe it’s the word, maybe it’s the fact that she’s so angry and that’s always when she makes her worse decisions, but she steps forward and wrenches his mouth to him.

            It isn’t the first time she’s kissed Stiles, but the last time was on a cold locker floor, with his hurried breathing and the gross stench of sweat in the room.   

            This time it’s probably the opposite, she’s the one who’s breathing hard and it’s freezing and the air is fresh and she’s angry at him, angry at herself, angry at everything in the world that led them into kissing angrily in the snow.

            It’s fiery, it’s passionate, and it’s deeper than she ever thought a kiss could be. It seems to send fire racing down every single one of her veins, it makes her brain go haywire and her belly erupt with pleasure. She doesn’t know – couldn’t know that Stiles could make her feel like this, she didn’t imagine that he could possibly be as bruised and broken as she is – but she can feel it. She can feel it through this kiss, this kiss that seems to be going on for longer than it should.

            He’s the one to pull away (surprisingly) a hand going to his lips, his eyes dark and confused.

            “Why did you – why did you kiss me?”

            “Because I needed to stop breathing,” she whispers, “Because I needed you to help me for just one second.”

            He waits several moments, as if considering some deeper meaning he’s trying to conceive, before he finally speaks. “You know, I took several things into consideration when I was making your character. And the one thing I really, really thought about – was if I would make you human like me, or inhuman. I made you into a Banshee because I thought you were strong enough to handle it.”

            “And am I?” she challenges.

            “Definitely,” a bitter smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, “But now I’m thinking I should have made you into a Siren. You know, like in Greek Mythology? They sink ships with their beautiful singing voice.”

            “Are you saying I crash cars or something? Because I don’t really – “

            “No. I’m saying that you sunk me Lydia,” he says, in a voice that’s darker and more angry than she thought Stiles could be, “You sunk me in senior year, and _now you’re sinking me again_.”

            She stares at him, simply dumbfounded. She’s always been good at handling confrontation, it was just one of those things that Lydia Martin excelled at. Stiles saying this to her? This was an entirely different scenario she hadn’t even dreamed of.

            “Stiles – “

            “I’m going to finish the hike,” he says abruptly, and tosses her the car keys. “You can leave the heater running if you want.”

            She doesn’t turn on the heater.

            She sits in the cold, letting it freeze over her hands and crystalize her cheeks, because she doesn’t want to feel anything.

            She wants to be empty again.

 

**_xvi. maybe she suffers for the thrill of it all_ **

****

The car ride is silent.

            When they get back to his house, he retreats into his room and slams the door.

            She steals his coat and wraps it around her shoulders, deciding that even though she’s freezing her ass off, a walk would do her some good.

            Walks would always clear her head when she was younger, and she didn’t see why it wouldn’t now.

            She slips out the house (hopefully unnoticed) and starts walking up the road on the same path that Stiles showed her.

            She doesn’t feel empty.

            She wishes she could feel empty, like Jackson taught her to be, like losing Stiles made her. Maybe it’s because she’s in the process of losing him for good, of everything slipping in-between her fingers for the second time.

            She’s always acted like she has everything under control, like every decision she makes is well planned out and thought through. Like choosing Jackson over Stiles ended up being smart, like every bad decision she made was someone positive, _everything_.

            In reality, she feels like all she does is screws things up.

            It’s a leftover feeling from her parents divorce, that everything’s her fault. It roots from the time she remembers hearing a broken whisper from her Father: ‘ _we used to be happy before Lydia.’_ Years later she attributed it to meaning something completely different, something that was out of proportions and just a rush of emotions.

            Now she sees that Stiles was right. She was a siren, someone leading people in to be crashed against the shores.

            She kept sinking people.

            She kept sinking _herself_.

            So even once she’s reached the point that she and Stiles usually turned back on, she keeps going, her feet numb and her hands starting to feel the burn. She knows it’s dangerous, but she can’t find herself to care. What’s the point of caring?

            Maybe this would help her feel empty again.

            “LYDIA!” there’s a shout of anger and desperation behind her, after probably about an hour of walking, and she quite honestly isn’t sure how far she’s gone. She turns around to see the Jeep thundering up the road towards her ( _far_ past the legal point she might add), Stiles screaming out the window.

            “Stiles?” she asks, tears filling her eyes.

            He stops the Jeep abruptly, and throws himself out the window to catch her in his arms.

            She doesn’t realize how cold she is until his arms touch her hands and it feels like fire. She gasps, her vision going blurry with tears and she collapses into his arms, sobbing.

            “I’m – I’m so sorry Stiles, “she whispers, “I never meant to sink you. Or anyone.”

            “You didn’t – Lydia I was just – we need to get you warm,” he says urgently, looking at her pale face and her quivering figure. He doesn’t even wait for her to attempt to move but sweeps her into his arms, carrying her bridal style over to the truck.

            She’s so cold and shivering, he roots around in the back for a blanket.

            “Get those cold clothes off.”

            She looks at him in astonishment. “ _What_?”

            “You can keep your underwear and bra on but Lydia – Jesus Christ I’m pretty sure your clothes are frozen.”

            “No peeking,” she says firmly, and he rolls his eyes.

            “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

            She tries to get the buttons undone, but her hands are numb and she can’t move them damn it.

            “Stiles,” she says softly, “I’m going to need your help getting my pants off.”

            “Oh sweet mother of –“ he mumbles, before his hands are unbuttoning her jeans and then he’s turning away with his hands over his eyes again. She fumbles off the rest of her clothes with numb fingers, before she’s wrapping the blankets as tightly around herself as possible.

            Her teeth are chattering, Stiles cranks up the heat and tucks the blankets more tightly around her before turning the Jeep around and careening back down at top speed.

            “I’m cold.”     

            “Thanks for the observation Captain Obvious,” he says angrily, “What the hell were you thinking?”          

            “I wasn’t.”

            “That much was clear. God, when I realized where you had gone - “

            “How did you find me?”

            “Footprints. In the snow.”

            “Well aren’t you a damn good tracker,” she mumbles, her teeth slamming apart and back together again with a loud clacking sound. The warmth hurts as it seeps into her bones, filling her every pore.

            “Seriously Lyds. Don’t ever do that again.”

            “Why do you care?” she shoots back, “I mean, it’s not like you wouldn’t be _just fine_ without your siren.”

            “Lydia I  - “

            “Don’t. I can make my own decisions, despite what everyone else in the world might think – “

            “That’s because your decisions are fucking stupid!” he practically shouts, “Lydia, you could have _frozen to death_ if I hadn’t found you. In fact, you’re extremely lucky that you didn’t get frostbite or _worse_. You know what happens when you get frostbite? They have to amputate your fingers and toes.”

            “I had gloves and a jacket.”

            “None of which were equipped to stay out in the cold for three fucking hours Lydia – “

            “CAN YOU MIND YOUR LANGUAGE!” she finally screams, and he looks at her in surprise. “You’ve literally said fucking like ten times in the last five minutes. Calm down Stiles. I’m alive.”

            “Yeah, but do you realize what would have happened if I hadn’t found – “

            “I would have died. I understand.”

            “No, I don’t think you do,” he finally says, “You know, death doesn’t just happen to _you_ Lydia, it happens to everyone around you. When my Mother died, it was like some void had come into my life and was eating away at _everything_ , so don’t just barrel into things like that. You’re a genius, so use your mind Lyds, just please.”

            It’s an emotional speech, one that renders her incapable of words for several minutes. “I just wanted to be empty,” she finally says, and tears start to trickle down her face, burning hot compared to the temperature of her skin. “Because I sunk you.”

            He looks over and places a hand on her knee, staring into her eyes with the same depth she had noticed earlier, but now he just looks sad.

            “Keep your eyes on the road,” she warns, and his head flits back, but his hand remains.

            “Lyds, I wasn’t thinking straight when I said that.”

            “It’s true!”

            “No, it’s not. I was just angry that you had kissed me for nothing again, like it was nothing – “

            “It wasn’t for nothing, and it wasn’t nothing.”

            “What?”

            “I kissed you because I wanted to,” she explains, “The lie I made up afterwards was because I was afraid.”

            “What were you afraid of?”

            She waits a moment before answering. “You,” she finally says. “You and the future and I could possibly have with you.”

            He stays silent the rest of the ride home.

 

**_xvii. but i know she’s thinking when she falls_ **

****

It isn’t until later, after Stiles gives her the proper treatments for being outside in the cold for too long (thank you google) that he brings up what she said in the car.

            “So – when you said that ‘the future I could possibly have with you’,” he begins nervously, and for the first time she watches his hands twitch and shake, like it used too when he was younger and didn’t have something to fiddle with.

            She decides then and there to stop _doubting_ everything and overanalyzing every single boy that comes across her path (including Stiles) and decides to just go with the flow (on a temporary basis. She’s Lydia Martin, not some hippie child.).

            So she sits forward and, grabbing him by the collar of his stupid plaid shirt, she smashes their faces together.

            And, she’s pleased to note, the kiss is just as pleasant when she’s _not_ angry.

 

**_xviii. i wanna touch the northern lights_ **

****

Falling in love with Stiles wasn’t like any of the analogy’s she’d read in books, it wasn’t like she had some miraculous realization that would change everything. It was more like something you’ve forgotten momentarily and just barely remembered, the warm feeling of the accomplishment filling her body like a hot drink.

            It isn’t like anything she ever imagined in a relationship for herself, the only person she’d really been with was Jackson, and she knows now that he wasn’t the model boyfriend like she had once thought.

            Stiles was more like a dream, a dream that she never wanted to wake up from.

            After her realization (and maybe she was little – scratch that – a _lot_ later than he was at realizing things) everything seemed to become simpler.

            One Tuesday he left mysteriously into town and came back with about ten different board games, and they spent the rest of the night playing Monopoly, Connect Four, and Chess to their hearts content. (She always wins at Monopoly, but he absolutely murders her at Chess.)

            She takes her first venture into town by herself to go to a local department store and buys a soccer ball.

            It’s winter (February to be specific) so they can’t exactly kick things around outside, but Stiles settles for his hallway, where they simply kick the ball to each other, talking about everything and nothing at all.

            It’s the simplest her life has ever been, and it’s also the most beautiful.          

            She’s always fit in with Stiles, but now it’s different. Now he randomly hugs or kisses her while she’s in the middle of talking, now he gently runs his hands over her hair and presses kisses to her forehead and temple – and she has enough influence over him to make sure that the glasses don’t come off.

            He spends the days writing and she reading up on different things she could do, she does have one PhD, and even if it didn’t do her any good before, she’s determined to do something with it _now_.

            She loved him.

            Wholly and completely.

           

**_xix. we could leave the world behind_ **

****

Allison finally corals Stiles into letting her speak on Face Time with Lydia, and while she wants to be angry at her best friend, she can’t really be that angry when it really _has_ helped.

            “ _Lyds_!” Allison and Scott are crammed into the small screen of Stiles laptop, and Lydia waves at them weakly.

            “Hey,” she says softly. Out of their friend’s sights, Stiles takes her hand.

            _“How have you two been_?” Allison asks eagerly. 

            “Good,” she says simply, because it’s the simplest word to convey how it’s been. “It’s been – _really_ good.”

            Stiles nudges her playfully, and she tries to convey with her eyes that he needs to stop making those faces or she’s going to start giggling and Allison will _know_ something’s up.

            “You seem a lot better,” Scott offers up, and Lydia blushes. She knows she does, knows that the weeks with Stiles have put color in her cheeks, life in her hair, and a brightness to her eyes that hasn’t been there for years.

            “Oh, I wanted to tell you, “Allison says warily, and she can see in her friend’s brown eyes that she’s thought a lot about whether or not to tell Lydia this. “Jackson came around town last week.”

            “What?” Stiles is the one that lets out the exclamation, sitting up and forward with a fierce protectiveness that can never lead to good things.

            “I hope you gave him a good kick in the balls for me,” Lydia responds calmly. “And I also hope he was returning my iPad. I still haven’t finished Chuck.”

            “Surprisingly, we did get back your tablet,” Allison has a wicked smile on her face, “It just took a little persuading.”

            “I hope you punched him in the face for me,” Stiles adds in, “Jackass.”

            “Well said!”

            “So what have you two been up to?” Allison leans forward, obviously _very_ curious.

            “We’ve been having a campfire every night, singing songs, and roasting marshmallows!” Stiles says brightly, and Lydia nods solemnly.

            “What else would we do? _Honestly_ Allison.”

            They go through their conversation exchanging various comments towards each other’s lives, and at the end Allison asks (with a slightly guilty look, like she actually feels bad about shipping Lydia out into hermit-ville.) “Do you want to come back Lydia? We can – “

            “No,” Lydia says firmly, “I think I’ll be staying just where I am for a while.”

 

****

**_xx. i wanna know what it’s like, to walk away from this life_ **

****

It’s a Sunday when she decides to tell him what happened with Jackson.

            She knows he’s probably expecting some massive sob story (especially after all the time she’s spent withholding it from people) but now it just seems sad to her. Sad because she didn’t see it before, because she didn’t escape from it sooner.

            She puts makeup on that morning, fresh lipstick, brand new eyeliner, and she feels like _Lydia Martin_. Not that sad mopey girl in her pink bedroom, watching Netflix over and over again. (Although Stiles let her finish Chuck the other day thank god.)

            “I’m ready,” she greets that morning, picking up her breakfast from the stove (blueberry pancakes this fine morning) and taking a delicate sip of her coffee, the rim coming away stained red.

            “It’s like seven in the morning Lyds,” Stiles says, not even looking from his lap top, “I mean sure, but I think it’s – “

            “Not that!” she exclaims, her cheeks heating up. “I meant I’m ready to tell you about Jackson.”

            At that he glances up at her, and there’s something shining in his eyes that brings a lump to her throat. (Damn Stiles.)

            “Okay,” he snaps shut his laptop and leans back in his chair, obviously waiting for her to speak.

            “It’s not a gigantic sob story,” she says quickly, “It’s actually one of the oldest stories in the book. We were basically living off _my_ pay check because he kept losing at professional lacrosse, and I hadn’t done anything fun for years and he kind of cheated on me,” she says the last bit in a rush, because she still feels ashamed, ashamed that it happened to her, that she spent so much time thinking she was in love with him.

            Stiles lets out a long slow breath, and then he stands up. He cups her face in his hand and leans in to give her an achingly gentle kiss.

            “I would say ‘I’m sorry’ but I’m guessing you don’t really want to hear that,” he whispers, and she shakes her head. He always knows what she needs.

            “Thank you.”

            “Do you want to hear about Erica now?”

            She hesitates (she doesn’t want to seem too eager) but then nods.

            “There’s lots of details and things that went wrong, so I’m just going to put it simply,” he finally manages to get out, running his hands through his hair, “We weren’t together. We weren’t getting back together. In fact, we were _friends_. And not in that awkward – “ he does air quotes, “friends way, it was like we actually enjoyed hanging out.”

            “So – “

            “ _So_ , one day she disappears. And I go crazy, trying to find her because you know, if people are missing it’s never a good sign and Erica, _Erica_ never left without saying goodbye. And then I – then I found her. She was being held by this insane pack of people, and she was already dead when I found her. Well me and my partner Derek, and it didn’t take me very long to quit after that. Seeing your ex-girlfriend dead doesn’t really do things for loving your job.”

            She presses a hand to her mouth in shock, because after everything (and she means everything) she never expected it to be like this. The notion that Stiles could go through something like that still be breathing and living like an every day person was _astounding_.

            “You’re amazing,” she whispers, “You’re so strong, and I just – “ she moves forward and kisses him like she’s never kissed anybody.

            It also makes sense now, that in all those princess movies and young adult books she’s read – when they kiss someone and it feels _real_. She’s always scoffed at that, any kiss is real right? Any kiss can be considered real, but she supposes it’s what you feel inside that makes it _real_. What makes it the best kiss she’s ever had.

            “You’re strong too,” he murmurs against her mouth, and she shakes her head.

            “I’m inhuman remember? And you’re, you’re the best one out of _all_ of us.”

            “I love you,” he says it, and while he’s said it in other ways before, in looks and _he doesn’t love you like I do_ and the gentle kisses late at night, but it’s the first time he’s said it like this, in three words, with no question mark at the end, but instead a solid confirmation that he, Stiles Stilinski, loves Lydia Martin.

            “I – I love you too,” she curses herself for sputtering, but she had to determine if she was ready to say it back.

            (It’s then that she realizes maybe she was always ready to say it back to Stiles but just didn’t know it.)

            “Really?”

            “Really.”

            It’s true, she loves Stiles in the way she loves Reese’s Cups or heels, love him in the way that nothing can replace him, loves him in the soft mountain light and in rough blankets and cold skin.

            She’s Lydia.

            He’s Stiles.

            And this was their story.

**Author's Note:**

> does anyone want a one-shot of their wedding? :)


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